


Working (Abandoned) Soldier

by AltheaShepard



Series: Soldier [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Aymeric worries, Denial, Estinien worries, Reunion, Someone also works himself the ground, Someone misses someone ever so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:42:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27646328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AltheaShepard/pseuds/AltheaShepard
Summary: Three months, the whisper of rebellion clinging to his ears and life continued on.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel & Estinien Wyrmblood, Slowburn aymeric/Estinien if you squint
Series: Soldier [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2020352
Comments: 20
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

Three months, the whisper of rebellion clinging to his ears and life continued on. Ishgard stood strong in the face of its new path and unknown yet hopeful future. The fledgling houses of its government stepped carefully into the overwhelming fog of the uncertain but despite many a misgiving (and often bruised ego) they hadn’t fallen to ruin yet. Officials were appointed by vote of the people into the houses with Aymeric’s appointment as the Speaker of the House of Lords coming as no surprise to anyone except himself. Much though he did not think himself deserving of such a rank, happy as he was with his current one, he accepted readily enough. Especially once Francel and Arotirel made it quite clear that the next option being bandied about was a distant cousin in the Durendaire family who, while distant from the politics of the old regime, did not have a generous view of the new path the fledgling republic was set on taking. Their distaste at the man’s staunch commitment to traditionalism, and thereby exclusion of any of the lower houses to the House of Lords and the establishment and close working relationship with the House of Commons, was abundantly clear.

Aymeric had exactly one conversation with the man and wished, fervently wished, that Estinien (scornful, dry witted, ghost that didn’t know how to write a letter it seemed) were at his side to rescue him. 

It came really as little surprise that only three months were needed for both Houses to settle into their respective roles. The House of Commons needed a bit more time as the appointed Lords were used to working and debating with each other and those in the Commons were used to a more… abrupt manner of gaining what they needed. Granted, the grip the Lords had on the purse strings needed to be loosened enough for the Commons to get the funds needed to public works projects but with Aymeric’s silver tongue to soothe any ruffled feathers there came an agreement that the lower portions of the city, those most affected by dragon fire and neglect, needed more attention than the relatively still pristine higher quarters. 

What was oh so greatly amusing to Aymeric was the fact that it was Hilda handling the distribution of funds, working alongside Francel to rebuild while the gruff woman also established a smaller police force to better patrol the streets. Especially in areas where the Temple Knights were not exactly trusted. (That was on his very long list of things to fix.) Hilda sat on the House of Commons, a fact that she made sure Aymeric knew she was not thrilled about if only because it brought her closer to working with the High Houses she didn’t trust, using her acerbic wit, sarcastic charm and blunt honesty to get what was needed. She also managed to bring up societal issues many were too nervous to speak of. 

In private, Aymeric was thankful that such honesty was fostered in the Commons and brought to bear in the Lords whose council often had their heads still firmly planted in a recently ended war. 

A war whose effects would be felt for generations to come.

A war whose end caused his dearest friend to disappear as smoke on the wind with nary a word in three months. 

And, as has been the case since the first week had passed without a sign or word from the man, his thoughts invariably turned to Estinien. 

Amber swirled slowly in his glass as he watched the fire, remembering the last time he’d sat in such quiet. Then, he’d had company, a quiet company but company nonetheless. Thinking back on that night, on the frightened, shattered face of his friend as he huddled against the cold wall, sends a shard of pain lancing through his chest and the burn of alcohol down his throat. He had known that despite the reassurances and the brave face he’d put up that Estinien was not so unaffected as he seemed. That nightmares stole his sleep and that the lingering ghost of Nidhogg haunted his steps. For those that knew him, it was an easy thing to suspect. And for those that watched him as closely as Aymeric always had, it was a simple thing to prepare for. 

He had known that Estinien’s strength could only last so long. Despite how impersonal the man seemed, how much further he kept people in an attempt to keep them safe so that he could throw himself wholeheartedly into his mission, there was a deep seated need to protect and an equally deep seated guilt when he failed. Falling to Nidhogg has doubtless been, and would be for sometime, his greatest shame, seeing nothing of how he kept the beast at bay long enough for Harellan to finish what they were unable to. A man whose pride rested only in victory ever saw shame in defeat. 

Thus, seeing that shame and the anger and the disgust in Estinien’s eyes as he’d loomed over him that night, fingers digging bruises into his shoulders, it was an easy thing to reach for him, draw him closer to lend him the strength needed to hopefully etch the truth a little deeper into the man’s skin. Such truths were whispered into his ears as he trembled in Aymeric’s arms, shaking apart at the seams in the only place he felt safe (he hoped). But… one truth remained unetched, whispered only when he knew that Estinien was asleep, face buried in his shoulder and body splayed mostly over him.

“If only I could hold you with me like this in the daylight, my love,”

He had taken the time that night, before sleep took him, to savor the warmth, the silken nature of the hair his fingers ran through, the breath brushing against his skin. The ache of longing always lingering in his chest twisted a little tighter that night and tighter still when the dragoon left the city without even a letter to speak of his departure. Such was his luck any time he had the opportunity to reveal the truth to his friend. The eve of every battle left the words tingling on his lips, the night of every victory had them burning alongside the satisfaction and relief. Every quiet and peaceful moment had them resting just under his tongue, wanting to be said but placed aside in favor of keeping the serenity. 

That night had felt the correct time. But memory and lingering pain stole it away. Comfort and reassurance was needed not proclamations of love and fidelity. As always, the words could wait in favor of the comfort of his friend. They had waited this long (the pain of holding them back mounting with every passed over moment), surely they could wait a while longer.

A thud from beside his chair drew him from his thoughts, pulled his eye away from the fire to the empty tumbler lying on the carpet. His fingers must have loosened their grip as his heart lamented the myriad missed opportunities. 

“It is unlike you to be so morose, my lord,” a rumbling voice says as long fingers pluck the tumbler from the floor and set it on the side table with the decanter. 

“Or so in your cups as to bring a flush to your cheek,”

A bitter chuckle leaves his lips as he draws his legs closer to himself, not raising his gaze beyond the specter’s legs.

“Tis also unlike me to see specters but that is becoming more frequent of late it seems,”

A hand (fingers long and warm, calloused and gentle, flesh not imagined) reaches for him, taking his chin in a careful grip and drawing his gaze upwards to the angular face he knows so well. The brows are drawn downward in concern, lips pressed to a thin line as sharp blue eyes dart across his face.

“Surely three months gone does not a specter of me make,”

That voice, however imagined (solid, rumbling, soothing), is a temporary balm to his injured heart as he leans into the touch with a faint hum, eyes slipping closed.

“Three months with no word. A specter you could be and I would not know,” 

The one hand keeps its grip on his chin, shifting slightly to properly cup his jaw. The other braces the body over him on the arm rest, that beloved face drawing closer and blocking the light from the fire. If only there were a smile on that face instead of a frown.

“Do you think so little of me, my lord, that I could not survive on my own outside the tether of Ishgard?”

(Were he of better mind he would notice the tension bleeding through Estinien’s stance, the very real anger and hurt warring with mounting concern on his face.)

His hand comes up to gently grip the other, turning his face to lay a fleeting kiss to the palm.

(Estinien’s eyes widen in surprise, breath stilling in his lungs for a brief moment.)

“I think the world, my dearest. But I’ve not the courage to say it to you in the flesh.”

The hand slips away from his grip, coming to rest on his forehead as worried sapphire reevaluates the flush on his lord’s face. Oh if only he could savor that touch outside of hallucination.

“Have you called for a chirugeon, Aymeric? You seem to be running a fever,”

He can’t help the chuckle he breathes as he places a palm on the specter’s (very real, very solid) chest, pushing him back so that he may sit forward and collect tumbler and decanter.

“Lucia sighted something similar ere she threw me from the office today. Such a worrier that woman is.”

“She may very likely have had the right of it,”

“Hm. I don’t get sick.”

Climbing to his feet sends his head spinning and his feet stumbling. (Estinien braces him quickly, alarm growing.) Too much to drink perhaps. (Too high of a temperature, more like.) Out of courtesy as he suspects specters are not fond of being walked through (he would find something rather more solid in his way if he did), he steps around the vision on his way to put the decanter back. (Estinien watches, rooted in place at an image he had never witnessed before. Aymeric’s face grows more pale the longer he’s upright, his hands shaking around the crystal as clearest blue eyes fog over.) They settle with a rattle as the room tilts, his hands coming down to brace himself upright. 

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have consumed so much,” he whispers, voice thread thin and wavering.

(Estinien’s heart thumps hard in his chest, long legs moving towards his dangerously swaying friend.)

“Perhaps you should have been abed instead of drinking,”

Unusual for a specter to sound so concerned. But it makes a very valid point. Something to consider after the ground is finished rushing up to meet him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cogs are turning in his mind as he realizes things he had rather ignored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled with this one a little bit but I think I got it how I wanted it. Enjoy!

Estinien catches him before he can hit the ground. Aymeric’s body hangs limp as he scoops him up, head lolling to fall against his shoulder, skin fairly burning with fever. His breath shudders in his chest, quick and shallow and slightly wheezing. Estinien wastes no time, lying Aymeric upon the bed and grabbing a cloth by the basin nearby, wetting it to lay against his forehead. There is little doubt in his mind that Lucia had indeed thrown the man out of his own office if he looked as terrible as he did now. He spares half a thought of calling Geoffrey but, with a glance at the clock in the corner telling of the late hour, he knows the man is gone to his own home by now. And the journey to a chirurgeon is out of the question. Likely, with the one time he remembers Aymeric being this ill before, the man would wake and try to go about something foolish like banking the fire and instead causing a shower of embers to land on the carpet and send the whole house up in flames in a matter of seconds. 

His heart could only take so much concern before worry soured and turned to anger and such rage would help no one. 

With a sharp eye on the bed, Estinien quickly stripped from his armor, digging some clothes from his pack to change. Pack and armor were set in an out of the way corner, lance under the other side of the bed and knife tucked under the mattress. Basin and pitcher on the side board were collected quickly, water replaced and more cloths, as well as a cup, were gathered before he returned to the room. Thankfully, Aymeric was still where he’d left him, though with the addition of an old grouchy furball glaring at the man as it settled on his lap. Perhaps knowing the man needed his rest, Estinien was spared the usual hissing greeting, rolling his eyes at the glare he received instead as he set his supplies on the nightstand. 

Turning back to his friend, he had to pause, the specter of a forgotten moment passing over his vision. A fragmented memory of a grievous injury on the battlefield being ignored in favor of the chirurgeons’ attentions being placed elsewhere, infection starting to set in and fever flushing his face, the continued insistence that naught was amiss has ice racing down his spine. Carefully, a rebellious part of his mind convinced it will find blood upon Aymeric’s cheek instead of a flush, he reaches a hand forward to brush against heated skin. It is a relief when his fingers come away clean. 

“When you are well, Aymeric,” he rumbles as he settles in a chair pulled over from the fireplace to wait in till morning, “I’ll be reminding you of the lecture you always give me. Something about knowing one’s limits and whatnot,”

Aymeric has not the courtesy to respond.

Slowly, carefully, he reaches one hand out to gently take Aymeric’s, thumb stroking slowly over the knuckles. He had thought of a half dozen things to say to his friend upon his return. An apology for leaving so abruptly. A comment on the changes he can already see in Ishgard after a full day of observation. A congratulations on his appointment in the House of Lords. Simple easy things one would expect after three months gone from home. All of it disappeared like smoke the moment he’d spied him through the window. Legs stretched in front of him, crossed at the ankles, fingers loose around a dangling, empty tumbler, hair a matted mess not from a recent washing as he’d suspected. 

The window opening did not draw his attention nor did the clanking of his armor or the thud of his pack on the floor. He felt as a ghost as he stepped across the room, picking up the tumbler when it fell. The fogged blue eyes he was expecting, as the Lord Commander rarely drank in excess and was somewhat of a light weight, but the degree of the fog was unfamiliar to him. Normally elegant words were slurred around the edges and tainted with a bitterness that left an ill taste in his mouth. 

“Three months with no word. A specter you could be and I would not know.” 

It was the resignation that sent a lance through him. Resigned to a fate of not knowing where his friend was or how he fared, not a word to come until a body was found. After so long in service to Ishgard, offence was the first thing to come to mind at such a statement, hurt a very quick companion. Surely his lord knew his strength, enough to have confidence that he would return unharmed. 

“I think the world of you, my dearest,”

A whispered confession matched with the fleeting pleasure of a tiny kiss against his palm. His heart had stuttered at the touch, at the whisper, a long forgotten part of him stirring as the hurt slinks away. How long had he been keeping this seret? How long had he been watching Estinien leave, heart twisting itself into knots with every passing day, hoping to see him safely returned home, flowered words meant for a lover being reduced to something for a friend and comrade? How many words pressed themselves against his lips, aching, begging to be spilled forth in that unique gilded way Aymeric had? How long have his arms ached to bring the taciturn dragoon into them to cradle against that warm and sturdy chest?

A grounding hold Estinien remembered from the nights spent hiding from nightmares in this very bed. The memory of that warmth spreads through him, closing his eyes to remember the arms wrapped tight yet gentle around his shoulders. His scalp tingles in reminiscence of these same fingers stroking through his hair, trimmed nails scratching gently at his scalp. Same as that night, peace soothes his worries, unwinds his shoulders and calms his nerves. That strength, seen in a friendly hand to help him to his feet, a strong slap to his back, the determined glint brightening clearest blue, takes on a separate meaning now as he wonders. 

How many meals had they shared where Aymeric allowed Estinien to drag him from his office? 

How many nights had they spent simply sitting before the fire with naught a word passing between them?

How many times had he fallen asleep in Aymeric’s office, always longer than intended as the Lord Commander was ever watching over him?

Why… Why did Aymeric sometimes look at him with that longing twist to his mouth?

(Why did his hands itch to reach for that face, to stroke his thumbs over those high cheekbones, to tangle long fingers in those inky dark curls?)

Why did he not say what was on his mind? (Why did Estinien push the longing away?)

Why did he keep it a secret to himself for Estinien to wonder about? 

Every eligible lady in Ishgard fair threw themselves at his feet and always he gave them a polite smile and a gentle rebuff. Always… always with a glance to Estinien first… 

A glance that soothed the niggling growl itching at his throat and the prickling urge to wrench that delicate hand off the Lord Commander’s arm. A lingering glance that set his heart skipping in his chest and warmth blooming between his ribs. 

A glance that saddened him with the knowledge that he couldn’t….

He was to die in the war, taking down Nidhogg, fighting back the hoards of dragons ensnared in his call. The Azure Dragoon had no time for romance, had no time for more but the few people he could call friend. No time for more than his duty.

_ “And what, My Lord, is so amusing?” He grouses, arms crossed tight over his chest as he glares at the chuckling Lord Commander.  _

_ Aymeric can barely pull himself together, hand waving any offence away as he draws himself up, mirth twinkling in his eyes and curling his lips. _

_ “Nothing, my friend, nothing. Just…”  _

_ Another chuckle, a deeper scowl. _

_ “I find it amusing that the duty consumed Azure Dragoon is attempting to give me a lecture about taking a break.” _

_ “I take breaks when needed, Aymeric,” _

_ “Oh I’ve no doubt you do. After, of course, I’ve bribed you home with the promise of those tarts you adore so much.” _

_ Aymeric’s hand lingers on his arm, soothing any sting his words might have inflicted. He holds onto his scowl out of principal, not wanting to admit the truth. That smirk, however, widens as the shorter elezen knows the truth. _

The shifting of the blankets draws his attention from the past. The hand he holds curls its fingers around his as Aymeric’s brow furrows. Carefully, Estinien squeezes his hand before letting go, collecting the cloth from his forehead to redampen it and pat it across Aymeric’s face. His head shifts on the pillow, leaning into the touch, frown easing an ilm as dark lashes flutter against a flushed cheek. Slowly, the lids peel back to blink blearily at nothing, the fever still fogging his mind. Estinien cups his face gently, the cloth pressed between them, an errant thumb shifting to brush against soft skin. The groan Aymeric lets out is a thin, crackling thing, those eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment as the brows twist. He has to strain his ears as words, a plea, are breathed into the air.

“Please…. Don’t leave….”

He isn’t sure if glass breaks somewhere or if the cracking sound is his heart.

“Aymeric,” he whispers, shifting to sit on the side of the bed, keeping one hand holding that face while the other curls with Aymeric’s, setting their joined hands on his knee.

He calls again, gently but no less urgently, thumb still brushing along his cheek. Second pass as ages as he waits, gently coaxing Aymeric’s attention to him. The eyes aren’t any clearer when he does manage to look up at him, no doubt still seeing him as a specter. 

“Estin….ien….” He breathes, question and hope and despair tainting his voice.

Estinien swallows past the lump in his throat, jaw clenching briefly.

“I am here, Aymeric. I am right here,”

The reassurance, perhaps the rumbling of his voice, seems to soothe a little of the man’s distress. Long fingers twitch in his hold, weakly curling around his own as he tries to smile.

“I wish… you were…”

More glass shattering.

Estinien doesn’t try to correct him, knowing the raging fever is to blame for his confusion. Instead, he simply leans down, lips pressing gently to a heated forehead and lingering there for several seconds. He draws back enough to rest his forehead against the other’s, noses brushing.

“Rest, Aymeric. Just rest,”

The ill man mumbles something Estinien can’t parse as his eyes slip closed again, breathing evening out to the wheezing depths of sleep it was before. He has to take a few moments to sweep the shards in his chest into order, uncurling his hand from Aymeric’s as he carefully draws back. Cloths are wetted and replaced, the blankets tucked a little tighter around the man. He snags a cloak from the closet, not giving a damn about the color as he pins the furred embodiment of rage and disdain with a glare to rival its best.

“I’ll return with a chirurgeon shortly. Do not let him get up.”

There’s a sound that could perhaps be agreement before Estinien sweeps from the room and the house, locking the door tight behind him. The cold of Ishgard wraps around him yet he hardly feels it. 

His foolishness is enough to chill him to the very marrow.


	3. Chapter 3

There were moments, fragmented, wavering moments where he thought he was awake. Where the darkness lifted and he became aware of an ache in his joints, the chill of his skin and a pressure in his chest. They never lasted long, not by his estimation. What were mayhap minutes condensed down to seconds. Distantly, he thought he was aware of someone at his side, wiping a cool cloth over his skin and soothing the heat prickling at his senses. Gentle hands fed him cool honeyed juice and warm broth, a strong chest bracing his back. Fingers untangled his hair, nails gently scratching at his scalp. Broad, warm palms soothed over his shoulders and back as he was pulled into a warm embrace when the phantoms pulled at his feet and shadows curled dark talons into his flesh to rend him to pieces. A voice, deep and rumbling, soothed over his nerves like a balm when the screaming made his ears ring, drawing him away from the echo chamber of the darkest parts of his mind. 

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the fog began to recede, the ache faded enough that opening his eyes didn’t hurt, that keeping them open longer than a brief second didn’t sap what little strength he’d managed to recover. The few times he managed such a feat, more frequent now as the fever faded, he recognized a presence watching over him. Warm sapphire set in a lovingly carved face framed by soft starlight. Such careful craftsmanship, such delicate care in making so kind and gentle a guardian. Some part of him, some part not taken by the fog and the heat and the ache, knew that face and that voice, those arms and calloused palms. The knowledge that some part of him knew this guardian was what soothed him to sleep when prompted, urged him to swallow the bitter medicine he recognized was mixed with the juice. 

A memory drifts by at the edge of his mind. His governess gently chiding him as she patched up a scraped knee from a tumble when trying to follow a cat.

_ “I know how much you adore the creatures, little knight, but not every cat will lead you to treasure no matter what they tell you.” _

_ Aymeric’s pout is a thing of legends at that age, giggled about among the other caretakers in the market.  _

_ “But the black ones always show me the best treasures,” _

_ The kind woman can only sigh, finishing her work with a kiss pressed to the bandage and a ruffle to his dark curls. _

He isn’t a black cat but graced with starlight and sapphires as he is, certainly he wouldn’t lead him astray. Perhaps, if he were lucky, this katzchen would stay with him longer than the little soot sprites that eventually disappeared. 

_ “You must always be polite when asking for things, little knight. Elsewise people will think you demanding and selfish. And we don’t want that,” _

By some miracle he’s able to raise a hand enough to grasp katzchen’s shirt, tugging weakly to gain his attention. 

“Will you stay… Katzchen? Please? Don’t disappear… like the… the soot sprites….”

Katzchen gently draws his hand up to cradle in one of his own, brushing his bangs from his forehead as he sighs.

“Just this once,” he rumbles, “if only because you are delirious,”

Whatever the excuse may be, he’ll take it so long as his katzchen stays at his side for a little longer. 

  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  
  


The sunlight that morning was soft, perhaps due to the early hour. Dust motes flitted between butter soft beams as they crept across the floor to land on the bed, warming the top of the blankets. Lovingly, they turned precious silver threads to softest snow spread on the pillow beside him, pearling cheek and jaw and softening normally stern features. Slowly, wanting to memorize such a rare sight, he takes in every detail of this precious image, fingers brushing gently across slim nose and relaxed brow. His skin tingles at the softness of the flesh, the cool silkiness of hair. How lovely a sight to wake up to. 

“I take it you’re still somewhat delirious,” rumbles his companion as another hand sneaks from the blankets to press against his forehead. 

One eye cracks open to regard him, sleepy darkening the blue. His companion doesn’t look concerned, instead rising slowly to brace himself on one elbow as he keeps his palm pressed to his forehead.

“Hm. Seems the fever did break last night. How are you feeling?”

Realization is a slow thing to dawn on him, watching the other man move in the morning light as though nothing were different. As though he hadn’t been gone for so long. He wants to ask, can feel the words tingling on his lips. He could always blame the remnants of a fever should the man still think him ill.

“Are you actually here?” Aymeric whispers, hand lying on the bed between them.

Estinien’s brow furrows for briefest moment before it softens, reaching down to pinch the back of his hand. The sting is brief, soothed by the stroke of a thumb afterwards. He blinks quickly, expecting this image to disappear before him but it doesn’t. It stays. Watching him with concern and some measure of relief and…

“I am here, Aymeric. As I have been the last two days while you’ve been fighting off a fever.”

Quite by surprise, as his chest warms with the thought of the taciturn man staying by him so long, Estinien flicks his forehead sharply, brow furrowing into a stern frown.

“That never should have gotten that severe. You’re always the one harping on others to take care of themselves yet you never take your own advice.” 

He’d be insulted if he weren’t so startled. And if he couldn’t read the concern underlining every word of the reprimand. A smile curls across his lips as he rubs the sore spot.

“My apologies, my friend. I did not mean to,”

“Hmph. You hardly ever do,” 

As Estinien climbed from the bed and retrieved a spare robe from the foot (one he kept in his wardrobe for just such an occasion), Aymeric shifted to sit up. The motion, however slow he took it, sent his head spinning for a brief moment. When the room settled finally, he found Estinien watching from the fireplace, new wood crackling away cheerfully. 

“I’m alright,” though his wavering voice said otherwise.

Estinien nodded after a brief moment and went about retrieving a new shirt from the wardrobe. Now that he was aware of it, his scalp tingled in want of a wash, his skin prickling at the remnants of sweat. He wrinkled his nose as he caught the faint scent clinging to his shirt.

“If you’re able to remain abed while I check if Geoffrey is downstairs, I’ll help you bathe properly,” 

“Much as I’d like to protest that I can do it myself, I think I’ll concede this argument before it starts.”

“Hm. Wise of you. Wait here.” 

The stubborn part of him, the one that had likely lain dormant due to illness, wants to climb from the bed ro prove that he can. The sensible part, on the other hand, simply keeps him seated against the headboard as Estinien leaves the room, leaving the door cracked to allow an old grey fur ball entrance. Upon noticing that his housemate was upright and conscious, the cantankerous old thing meowed loudly and dashed to the bed, hopping up to butt its head against his chest. It was the warmest greeting he’d had from the cat in some time, prompting him to gather him close and scratch behind his ears to a loud rumbling purr. 

“I see Ser Wyrmblood was speaking true, Sir,” 

Looking up from the rare snuggles he was permitted, Aymeric smiled as he spotted Geoffrey coming through the door with a loaded tray, Estinien trailing behind. 

“Indeed he was. Good morning, Geoffrey,”

The old man smiled as he set the tray on the table before the fire.

“Good morning, Sir. I’ll prepare a bath for you and while you wash up, I’ll change the bedding,”

“That would be most appreciated, thank you,” 

Assembling the bath took no time at all, Estinien thankfully not insisting on carrying him though he did keep an arm around him as his knees wobbled during the short trek. The cold stone of the bathing chamber woke his fuzzy mind a little more the second he stepped upon it, at odds with the steam rising from the tub. Oh how he was looking forward to this.

“I think I can handle it from here, Estinien,”

The dragoon huffed, gently leading him to sit on the side of the tub and tugging Aymeric’s shirt up, ignoring the Lord Commander’s struggling. 

“And allow you to fall asleep and drown yourself? I think not,”

“Then at least allow me to undress myself!” He groused in protest. 

Estinien paused, eying him critically for a long moment before relenting, letting go of his shirt and stepping aside to check the bath water. In truth, Aymeric knew there was a very likely possibility of drowning himself or cracking his head upon the stone if left on his own. He could feel the lingering weakness and ache in his joints and the promised heat of the bath had him eagerly stripping down, modesty forgotten in favor of getting clean. Once free, and with Estinien’s help, he sunk slowly into the bath with a relieved sigh, the heat seeping into joints and chilled flesh, loosening his chest as the water slid over his shoulders. Gently, his head was pulled from the side of the tub, Estinien placing a towel behind him as a makeshift pillow. He managed to mumble a thank you as a welcoming lassitude settled into his limbs.

Minutes ticked by slowly as he soaked, enjoying the heat and breathing in the steam. Some oil smelling of citrus and vanilla drifted into the air, no doubt meant to assist in loosening the lingering infection from his chest. Warm gentle hands reached for him, gently drawing him to sit up enough that water could be poured over his hair, one of them shielding his face from the droplets. All he can do is let himself be cared for, the walk from the bed taking what little strength he’d had. Once his hair is thoroughly dampened, strong fingers work the shampoo through the dark strands, nails scratching across his scalp sending shivers down his spine. His head is tilted back again, his eyes shielded as more water rinses the soap away. Sweet smelling cream is worked into his locks for a few moments more before those wonderfully talented hands are rinsed and draw up one of his own from the water.

“Think you can manage to scrub yourself down while this sits?” 

Estinien’s voice is low as he asks, drawing his eyes open again. He hadn’t realized he’d closed them.

“I believe I can manage that,” he murmurs, taking soap and cloth and setting to the task.

It wakes his mind up enough, focusing on scrubbing away dried sweat and illness. Feet, legs, privates and chest are all scrubbed and rinsed. The cloth and soap, however, are plucked from his hands when he reaches to do his back. Once again those hands are on him, washing across a strong back, being sure to get every inch. He’s efficient, but not rough, thorough as he always is as he rinses the soap away and tilts his head back once more to rinse his hair. There are words he could probably say, a quip to make to accompany a smile. Both drift across his thoughts and just as easily drift away unanswered. This peace is too sweet a thing to break. 

He’s allowed to linger in the bath until the water goes luke warm then the plug is pulled and he’s carefully urged up and out, sat on the edge as he’s handed a towel. Embarrassment isn’t even a thought to be entertained as Estinien takes another towel to dry his hair, making sure there are no drips to sneak down his neck. Shame, however, tingles below the surface as he’s helped into smalls and shirt, soft trousers and thick socks, sat again on a stool so that Estinien can work a comb through his hair and rake a small amount of oil through the locks. The softly whispered apology slips from his lips unblocked. 

Estinien pauses, eyeing the bowed head and considering. A soldier himself, independant and fierce as the Lord Commander, he understands what isn’t said. Understands what is loaded in the simple words. He rinses his hands before coming around to crouch in front of him, being sure to catch his eye so that Aymeric can see the lack of judgement in his own.

“Wasn’t it you who said there was no shame in needing help?”

A breath, two, and Aymeric’s lips twitch upwards the smallest bit, shoulders easing from their tense posture around his ears.

“You seem to have picked up the habit of using my own words against me,”

“Hmph. When they are decent words, why wouldn’t I?”

Aymeric chuckles, standing when prompted and clinging to Estinien’s shoulders as the room lists to one side.

“Only decent?” he asks, momentarily breathless once the world settles.

“Allow your head to settle on your shoulders again before filling it with hot air,”

His chuckle is a little stronger that time as he’s led out of the bathing chamber and to his room. Thankfully, Estinien sees fit to set him in his usual chair, checking that the food and tea on the tray is still warm. It’s lite fare, a thin porridge, soft bread and sliced fruit, meant to settle in the stomach with little upset. It speaks to how well Estinen knows him that a bowl is prepared for him as he catches his breath from the short trek. The bowl and a cup of tea are set on the side table between the two chairs, within easy reach for when he can manage to collect them. As Estinien prepares his own breakfast and settles beside him, he cannot help but ask.

“How long are you staying?”

He hopes it doesn’t sound as accusatory as he thinks it does. Judging by the faint wince and Estinien’s side eye, it did. He doesn’t reprimand him or get angry, simply sips his tea as he settles.

“Until Lucia allows you back in the office. I suspect by then you’ll be called off to Gridania for a war meeting.”

He hums in agreement, carefully picking up his bowl and taking a bite of the porridge. Honey and cinnamon spread over his tongue, prompting his stomach to give a vaguely interested grumble.

“You’ve also much to catch me up on. The air in Ishgard seems somewhat changed.” 

Smiling, Aymeric swallows another bite.

“Indeed it is. Much and more has happened while you’ve been away,”

“Then enlighten me, Speaker, so that I might be caught up,”

Estinien listens as Aymeric details the changes three short months have brought to Ishgard, watching carefully as breakfast is consumed between words. The fog in those sky tinted eyes has lifted entirely, what’s left unsaid clearly seen within. From the crinkling in the corners and the fading of hurt, his own must be reflecting what he struggles to voice. Hurt, apology, longing, forgiveness, promise. Something… something undefined for now, kept to the fever dreams and better mentioned when illness has passed. Better discussed when surety and clarity can be secured.

The confessions he shall keep in the back of his mind. For now.


End file.
